If you've lived in Lawrence for more than just a few months, or have ever seen a show at Liberty Hall or the Bottleneck in the dead of winter, chances are you've stopped over at Java Break for a cup of Joe to keep you warm and caffeinated. What you may not know is that in the days before iPod's were readily available (and discounted for KU students), the Java Break staff would make their own customized playlists (on, like, Winamp or some shit!). Despite the fact that most of the playlists were rarely altered, thus making repeated visits (and there were plenty before I could drink legally) incredibly repetitive, I honestly owe the Java Break staff as much credit for turning me on to some of my favorite artists as anything else. So, in honor of the great music, and because its definitely latte weather, here's a mixtape that I hope will warm you up and make the old Java Break staff proud.
Before I go, I should not that one track is mislabeled. The artist performing the eighth song is actually Hayden, and the song title is "Bad as They Seem." Feel free to share any of your coffee house favorites, or let me know if I forgot anything (I know that there are at least a couple of you reading that have been to the 'ol Java Break once or twice), in the comments section.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Mixtape Monday:
Java Rock
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Has Anyone Heard of This Little Band Called Neutral Milk Hotel?
gfgdg
Leaving the classroom yesterday I picked up a wayward copy of last week's Jayplay, the entertainment section included in each Thursday's edition of The University Daily Kansan. After flipping past articles on adult acne and synchronized swimming (I'm NOT making this up), I came across a section called "Music That Moves You," a man-on-the street-style interview that asks headphone wearers what they are listening to at that precise moment. (The idea is an intriguing one, not unlike a feature SonicRyan is cooking up that asks musicians to list their current musical obsessions.)
To my shock, right there next to devotees of Michael Jackson and some band that "sounds like My Chemical Romance" (sigh), we have sophomore Kari Cozad listening to "Oh Comely" by Neutral Milk Hotel. My heart fluttered. Then I read her comment: "It's a pretty indie sound. I had some friends that like it so I said I'd give it a look." This is the best you can come up with to explain why you are listening to one of the most incredible, heart-wrenching ballads ever penned?
I think I'm going to plagiarize Miss Cozad's phrase "indie sound" whenever I'm pontificating about my music (which is, like always). "Hey, have you heard Of Montreal's latest? It has a real indie sound." "The Knife? A real indie sound." "Panda Bear..."
Friday, May 11, 2007
Which Came First, the Music or the Misery?
Driving home from work yesterday, I had to turn off Joanna Newsom’s phenomenal album Ys. I had once thought the thirty-minute commute a perfect opportunity to delve into the album. Perhaps this time I delved a little too deep. At one point in “Sawdust and Diamonds” – I believe it was the line “And though our bodies recoil from the grip of the soil, why the long face?” – I started to choke up a bit.
This got me thinking: how can some albums take on such monumental, life changing status that they become torturous? Distressing? Unbearable?
Case in point: Neutral Milk Hotel’s In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. The album encapsulates our journey from birth to death beautifully and harrowingly. In the opener, “The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1,” the protagonist reflects on his father’s suicide attempts. Or more accurately, his father’s inability to realize those attempts: “Each one [was] a little more than he would dare to try.” We traverse the album’s often bumpy, unforgiving terrain, and see how one could be driven to such a dark place. We see bliss and sorrow intermingle in the titular track, when Jeff Mangum reminds us that one day we will all die. In the meantime, he implores the listener, “Let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see.” We see the haunting vision of “Holland 1945,” perhaps the band's finest example of combining boisterous music with melancholy subject matter. As in life, Mangum wants us to feel the joys and horrors and everything in between.
Few albums can bring me to tears – you haven’t claimed me yet, Ys – but Aeroplane is an album I cannot listen to now without feeling, well, pretty bummed out. Perhaps I’ve brought this on myself. Once, in a drunken stupor, I told my husband that I wanted the album played at my funeral. (Hey, he understands getting worked up about the album. I can distinctly recall him being heavily intoxicated at sunrise and screaming the lyrics to “King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 2-3” whilst throwing full beer cans at our apartment building. The phrase “I love you, Jesus Christ” never sounded so compelling.)
Many of us turn to music when we’re down, whether it’s to seek comfort or wallow in the mire. So it’s no surprise that when we are in a good mood, we would want to avoid somber tunes, no matter how amazing those tunes might be. Thus I gravitate to Takk over Agaetis Byrjun or even Neon Bible over Funeral. When I need my Neutral Milk Hotel fix, On Avery Island is a much more upbeat alternative, that is until we get to that bit about “carving holiday designs” in one’s flesh.
In some cases my album avoidance stems from my wanting to keep that album sacred, special. Like, “We’ll only listen to Aeroplane on the night of our first child’s birth,” or something like that. Maybe it’s not wanting to ever completely “crack” an album – or at least not wanting to wear it out entirely. Thankfully these complex, often mysterious albums can stand up to repeat listenings. This is particularly true of Ys, an album so dense there’s likely far more to cry over than I’ve unearthed to date. For now I’ll keep pondering the question Rob Gordon poses in High Fidelity: “Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?”